


“So you’re the one who’s been taking my reserved parking space in the Magnus Institute car park.” (Turn to page 37.)

by dysprositos



Series: It Hasn’t Been My Day, My Week, My Month, Or Even My Decade [4]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Time Travel, fearpocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:48:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24653389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dysprositos/pseuds/dysprositos
Summary: Reserved employee parking spaces just don’t seem as important to respect as they did before you came back in time from living in a post-apocalyptic hellscape. Until you hear a voice from behind you...
Series: It Hasn’t Been My Day, My Week, My Month, Or Even My Decade [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1782421
Kudos: 18





	“So you’re the one who’s been taking my reserved parking space in the Magnus Institute car park.” (Turn to page 37.)

“On your _knees_ ,” says Elias Bouchard, says Jonah Magnus, and you spend a confused moment trying to obey before you realise that you already are on your knees and in fact that it was a question, not a command. He sounds gently amused (which has to be a good thing, right?) as he tells you, “I’m not in the habit of firing Institute employees over a single faux pas.”

“Or killing them?” you suggest, and then cast about for the right honorific for the “call me Elias” king of the apocalypse, because boy does “sir” seem insufficient. “My lord.” No, Annabelle Cane was keeping her name secret for reasons still unknown to you. “Lord Magnus,” you correct, and look up to see him go utterly still.

He squats down in front of you quickly, making direct eye contact. “Tell me,” he orders, and the weight of eyes upon you is not _quite_ the soul-obliterating force the Archivist was described as mustering, but it’s very... focused. It occurs to you, suddenly, that the difference between being Beheld to dust and being merely stripped clear down to the bone is a very _academic_ question to the dead. He doesn’t actually tell you what he wants you to tell him, but if there’s anything you’ve learned since the Change it’s how to take direction.

Your mouth opens, and words tumble out. “The world is night and knives and mists and masks and fangs and filth and twists and cliffs and mud and ash and bone, the ruined world between the thrones of the man who called the eyes which watch us all and fill the skies as we scream and plead and cry and fight and flee and bleed and die.” It’s not _quite_ what you meant to say (you wonder a little about your dreams of a spider in your brain) but he seems to get the gist.

“Lovely,” he sighs, one hand caressing your cheek, along your jaw, the other coming up to rest on the nape of your neck, before suddenly he snaps it.

  


BAD END

Turn back to page 190 to choose a different reserved parking space!


End file.
